The Gary Stu Exercise
by baja-king
Summary: Are you saying that all of the contributing authors are women? So far, yes, but we would love to have a male author drop in! There's a whole lot more for a male author to explore, simply because it's much easier for him to operate topside, out of the tunnels! I mean, he can take Olsen's place in the barracks while he's off doing whatever in Hammelburg. Originally posted 7/14/19 AO3


I looked around and smiled. It had been too many years that I could do that without wearing "coke bottle" glasses. I appreciated 21st Century technology, as it proved advantageous, including laser vision surgery. As I joined my fellow elders, I embraced my traditional heritage. I despised the indoor venue with concrete floors, causing my bones to ache with every dance step. I am not a young man anymore. Next powwow, I must remember to add more padding to my moccasins.

The audience is reverently silent. The ceremonial drum maintains a slow pace. I think that the thirty of us make an impressive display wearing our traditional regalia with pride and responsibility as we do the Elder March. We hold our heads high and maintain perfect balance so our headdresses of sacred eagle feathers display with splendor. Several others and I temporarily set aside modern canes in favor of traditional walking sticks.

When the drum ceases, the audience remains silent. Heavy rain beats upon the metal roof of the fairground building. Our tribal council chairman offers a prayer, first in our language and then in English. Then we make our way to the sidelines. It is time for our sons to do the Fancy Dance. The drums fervently beat and chants reach an excited pitch. My sons honor our people.

The room feels stifling hot. Doors remain propped open and several of us linger near them. I see a young girl talking with her mother, nervous about her first Shawl Dance. She wears her beaded crown with colorful pattern highlighted with glitter. Well, it is a modern world. To some, it is just another powwow celebrating our tribe's restoration. For me, it is a chance to embrace my heritage. Come Monday morning, I will revert to my daily life as a number cruncher.

During breaks, I walk about and call out, "Dic mbosant nanokens!" Several non-Native persons look confused while others bemused. I smile when a young male teen said, "He's saying good morning everyone." Only three hundred of us speak our language, but our tribe improves its effort to bring it back so it is not lost forever. The teen looks at me, smiles, and then lowers his eyes in respect.

As is usual, the time arrives when people want to take pictures with us. I have mixed feelings about cellphones. I purchased my first one just a year ago, and mostly for my children's sake as they worried about my advancing years. I stand with honor with my people. I stand in friendship with our non-Native guests and neighbors who wish to learn more about our ways. I hear a few disrespectful murmurs from juvenile delinquents making fun of my long braided hair.

An odd sort of fellow approached, dressed too warmly for the season or the venue wearing a dark business suit. I assumed that he was in town visiting relatives. He wants a picture with me, the dreaded selfie. As the cellphone flashed, I felt a stinging sensation in my thigh. The man thanked me and hurried away. I started rubbing my leg and realized there was an antique watch on the floor. The man must have dropped it, I thought.

I bent down and picked up the watch, intent on returning it to its rightful owner. I heard a strange popping sound and then smelled acrid smoke. I feel disoriented. I am standing on dirt and the night air feels chilled. Someone grabbed my arm and hurried me into a peculiar building. My eyes struggled, readjusting to yet another unexpected change in lighting. I see men in old uniforms of various ranks and feel suddenly immersed in World War 2 history.

The silence finally broke as an enlisted man jested, "Who ordered a cigar store Indian?"

Several men laughed but my eyes focused on the ones who did not. A man in a British uniform looked at another man wearing a French uniform, both equally confused. A technical sergeant looked at me with awe before lowering his eyes.

The man wearing a bomber pilot's jacket and crush cap skeptically said, "This doesn't make any sense. Now we're getting non-authors – and from the past?"

I laughed, "I get a feeling this isn't the year 2019."

The Frenchman incredulously asked, "You're a fan fiction author?"

My mind raced. How did he know? I tried assimilating the peculiar facts. This _was_ World War 2. Currently, I only used one internet persona writing fan fiction. I finally replied, "Baja King. So what's going on here?"

"Carter, help him into the tunnels and fill him in," said the man wearing the crush cap.

Carter? Like Hogan's Heroes? Impossible – it was just a television series. I thought it an incredible coincidence as I looked around the room. Was it really Colonel Hogan? And was that LeBeau? Newkirk? Kinchloe? Which one was Garlotti? And what would he think of buffalo meat as a pizza topping?

Carter approached and said, "Careful on the ladder."

As the bunk bed ladder activated, I said, "This is brilliant. Thank you, Andrew."

The black man commented, "Wow, that's unbelievable. We get our first guy and we still have to make sure he has to avoid being seen."

I smiled, "At least I can come up from the tunnels to use the latrine." I looked around and saw mix reactions to my terrible joke.


End file.
